


Homecoming

by presidentwarden



Series: Homecoming & Sacrilege [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Warden, there are responsibilities without end, tiresome tasks to be fulfilled, that draw Loghain away from what matters most. But Zevran is always there, waiting, with the patience of a dutiful lover.</p><p>- - -</p><p>Loghain answers with a low laugh, a smile spreading across his face and his posture softening to accommodate for the arms locked around his solid waist. His hands find their way to Zevran’s hips through a layer of thick wool, woven into a fashionable sweater. Antivans are not always suited for Ferelden temperatures, but Zevran seems to have found a stylish solution, a departure from the usual for the assassin accustomed to minimal leather armor. “Isn’t it always, Zevran?”</p><p>“Oh, no, not always. I remember that time you and the Warden came back from an expedition with empty pockets, claiming to have been robbed. It took a thimbleful of spiked brandy in her drink that evening to discover she’d let you spend it to purchase an entire litter of mabari pups.”</p><p>Loghain reddens slightly. “Ridiculous. That purchase was for the Wardens.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

Traveling is wearying. It always has been, always will be, but navigating the backwater wilds of Ferelden on a journey solely to fetch supplies from a hidden cache in Denerim has just about sapped Loghain’s energy. In his days as a Warden, it’s been rare for him to travel alone; if nothing else, the group’s de facto leader, the small, diplomatic city elf with a steady supply of compliments and an even larger supply of explosives, will habitually bring Loghain on her missions, treating him as an unofficial second in command. This time, however, he is alone, not even a particular sharp-tongued Antivan permitted to accompany him. His orders are clear, and allow no room for interpretation.

He supposes, though, it is an act of faith, sending him back to the heart of Denerim alone. A test on the part of the Warden, with high stakes, as always.

So Loghain completes it with no trouble, loading his saddlebags to the brim with salvaged Warden artifacts, arms, and armor and guiding his horse through the outskirts of Denerim. Across flatlands and up mountain paths he travels, borne by a sure-footed warhorse, until he dismounts, days later, at the gates of Soldier’s Peak.

The fortress rises from a mist of fog, snow-shrouded and dismal as it looms before him. Legend says a blood mage still works in a hidden tower, conducting grisly research into the power of the taint; when confronted, the Warden confirms the rumors with a shrug. “His work is useful to me.”

Loghain does not find this comforting.

But for now, the reclaimed stronghold is where the Warden has chosen to set up home base, complete with an assorted pack of vagabonds that she’s located with surprising ease upon initiating recruitment efforts in Ferelden. The castle draws nearer with each stride, and as Loghain crosses beneath the heavy spiked gate, he dismounts his horse, light armor shifting around his midsection as he lands nimbly on his feet. He leads the steed forward with a soft tug of the reins -- hardy Ferelden stock, tall and bay, with a spirited temper. It responds to gentle guidance but balks at harsh direction, not unlike Loghain himself.

His footfalls crunch on the gravel and snow amid the clang of iron-shod hoofbeats, and a small boy -- one of the Dryden clan, now-permanent residents of the Peak -- scurries up to lead the horse off to its stables. Loghain pauses him with a hand on the shoulder, and presses a silver into the boy’s hand for his trouble. His days and years, just like all Wardens, are numbered. There is no reason now not to be generous.

Working quickly with ungloved fingers, he detaches the armor-laden bags from the horse’s saddle-blanket and slings them over his shoulders, greeting the eager Dryden merchant with a nod and trudging over to the metal storage chest to unlatch its lid and place the gear within. Daggers, swords, shortbows, and an assortment of gloves and greaves -- nothing spectacular, but the Warden wanted to clean out the Denerim cache, lest any fool stumble across it and know more of the Grey Warden secrets than they should. Loghain, for all his paranoia as regent, makes a surprisingly sympathetic Warden, favoring an accessibility within and outside the Order that might make the group less prone to suspicion about their true intentions. Slowly, as the Fereldan Wardens rebuild under the elf and the teyrn’s guidance, they are moving in that direction.

He kneels to place the last piece of armor within the chest, a sophisticated and lightweight helm with sharp ornamental wings that gracefully ascend from the temples. Its design follows the Wardens’ recognizable emblem, and Loghain has a similar model, gifted to him by the Warden, that remains one of the prizes of his armor chest. Perhaps some future Warden will be worthy of this one. He lets it rest gently atop a set of leather gloves, then shuts the lid, rising to his feet again and wiping his brow. After days of travel, the bracing bite of mountaintop chill and the firm ground beneath his feet are a profound relief.

The only warning is a touch to his hand, long slender fingers that slip between his own and press their palms close. Even in cold climates, the rogue has warm hands, typical of the hot-blooded Antivan who simmers with mischief. The next sign is a breath in his ear, a gently murmured “mi amor,” and with that, the former Crow gathers the taller man into an embrace, pushing a stray lock of damp, dark hair off his lover’s forehead. “I trust your journey was a safe one, my Loghain?”

Loghain answers with a low laugh, a smile spreading across his face and his posture softening to accommodate for the arms locked around his solid waist. His hands find their way to Zevran’s hips through a layer of thick wool, woven into a fashionable sweater. Antivans are not always suited for Ferelden temperatures, but Zevran seems to have found a stylish solution, a departure from the usual for the assassin accustomed to minimal leather armor. “Isn’t it always, Zevran?”

“Oh, no, not always. I remember that time you and the Warden came back from an expedition with empty pockets, claiming to have been robbed. It took a thimbleful of spiked brandy in her drink that evening to discover she’d let you spend it to purchase an entire litter of mabari pups.”

Loghain reddens slightly. “Ridiculous. That purchase was for the Wardens.”

Zevran just smirks, and places a soft peck on his lips, leaning up onto his tiptoes to meet Loghain at eye level. The wind kicks up, blowing blonde hair into his face, and he steadies himself by holding onto a fistful of the fur trim on Loghain’s shoulder plates, breathing deeply and inhaling his scent. After he has lingered for a moment, he whispers to the general again. “Shall we go in?”

“If you’d like.” Loghain is readily compliant, strolling hand in hand towards the stone staircase with his boots crunching in the snow and the wind whipping at his braids. Zev matches his long strides with quick steps, bounding up the stairs and circling back again to match Loghain’s slower pace. The older man is weary from the travel and from hours on horseback, his joints stiff from exertion. A hot bath will soothe that, later.

Loghain halts at the top for a moment, wiping his forehead and the back of his neck. Despite the chill, he is still damp with sweat from the day’s journey, and eager to shed his armor. While Loghain catches his breath, Zev moves on ahead and delivers a series of quick knocks at the entrance, waiting for the gatekeepers to open the massive wooden doors.

Another of the Dryden clan responds, instantly leaping to his feet and hauling the door open to allow the pair through the the entryway. Loghain strides forward first, taking it all in; the old tattered rug is still there, adorning the bare floorboards, but the ominous little statues resting against either wall are gone, probably due to the Warden’s hatred for them. Someone has taken the time to tear down the banners with the Chantry emblem and install a chandelier from the ceiling, casting pleasant warm flickering shadows down onto the floor. Zev waits and pauses, letting Loghain take his time, until with a touch to the elf’s arm, he finally moves on into the next room. “It’s good to be back.”

“And it’s good to have you back, Loghain.” The Warden has set up shop at one of the desks, preferring to keep her headquarters out in the open on the first floor rather than the previous Warden-Commander’s office. She’s studiously hunched over a pile of papers, reviewing documents to be sent to Weisshaupt, but sets down her quill and rises to her feet as he enters, brushing strands of long gray hair out of her face, and moves to approach.

Loghain halts her with a hand, and moves to greet her, Zev trailing along in tow. Polite as ever, he bows his head slightly, a sign of deference to the commander. “Thank you, Warden.”

“Just Alma, please. We’re both Wardens, remember.” They do this every time, a friendly banter that culminates in the gentle reminder of familiarity. The small elf folds her hands behind her back, and draws herself up a little, an attempt to match Loghain’s far taller height. She wears no formal Warden regalia, just a simple dark grey shirt and trousers, matched by a lighter-colored vest. Looking more closely, Loghain notes that one shoulder of her uniform has a griffon emblazoned onto it, a neatly hand-sewn badge. “I trust your travels were safe?”

“They were. I’ve prepared a list of what I retrieved.” He presses the folded list into her waiting palm, inspects her again, and tilts his head slightly, offering a smile. “The griffon is new. Will that be standard for all Wardens?”

“Only if you want it to be.” She returns the smile with a slight grin, tucking the list into a pocket at her hip. “I’ll leave you to your business. There’s much to see in our renovations. You’d be surprised what we’ve accomplished in a week.”

“You got rid of the statues.”

“Donated to a small antique shop at the base of the mountain. We’re thinking of having it turned into a Warden-related historical museum. We need all the publicity we can get.”

Zev snorts, tucking his free hand into the pocket of his cozy sweater. The other still grips Loghain’s hand tight, fingers interlaced. “Alma Tabris; ever the opportunist, and my second favorite Warden, too. Won’t you think of the villagers? What ever will they do about the hordes flocking to see your Grey Warden Museum?”

Alma glances at him out of the corner of her eye, matching his smirk. “If you’re so concerned about them, you can go set up a charity for the poor and the downtrodden. Right next to the Antivan Crows Museum.”

“Thank you truly, my dear lady, but I’d rather not get involved in this particular venture.” Zev takes note of the papers stacked high on her desk, and decides not to ask. Best not to ask about whatever’s simmering in the vials on a nearby table, either. It looks like the sort of thing that might be explosive, and liable to be flung at the nearest enemy. “I do wish you the best of luck. Myself and Loghain will continue to monitor affairs here at the castle that we call our home, while you try to singlehandedly bring modern civilization to the neighboring villages.”

“There are very few better homes to have, I must say.” Loghain does his best to dispel the simmering but playful rivalry between them, offering a few polite words. “I do like what you’ve done with the place. How are the Drydens faring?”

“Never better. They’ve made a fortune from trading with our new recruits.” Alma pauses to think, twisting a strand of silver hair around her finger. “Six hundred sovereigns and seventy-two silvers in the past week, give or take a handful for tips.” At Loghain’s incredulous look, she offers a slight shrug. “I make everyone turn in receipts for reimbursement. It’s good for keeping Weisshaupt satisfied.”

“The only way you could run a tighter ship is if we were on a sea voyage.” Zevran laughs, and gives Loghain’s hand a gentle tug, guiding him towards the exit. “Come, now. Let’s leave our mistress of receipts to her duty. Surely she doesn’t have a spare moment to hear about how you singlehandedly fought off five raging ogres on the mountain pass.”

“I assure you, _no_ such thing happened--” But Loghain has already been whisked off to the next room, leaving Alma to briefly protest in his absence, and Zevran leads him through the nearest doorway, entering a large chamber with a substantial and rowdy assortment of Warden recruits engaged in a vigorous debate about a card game. No one takes any notice of their entrance; bottles clink, cards fly, and the clamor continues, save for a smaller group of Wardens dutifully minding their business at another table.

Zevran saunters up to the nearest of the latter, utterly confident. “How do you do.”

The chosen target, a small dwarven woman with black hair pulled back in a bun and spectacles perched on her nose, inspects Zevran critically. “Aranai. We weren’t introduced, but I’ve heard of you.”

“Have you? How… flattering.” A divinely charming grin. “Yes, that’s me. And this is my lover, Loghain Mac Tir.”

A completely unfazed stare. “Great. Call me Janika.” She extends a hand in greeting to both in turn, gripping Loghain’s hand with a little more force and standing on a chair to meet his height. “Before you ask, I’m a surfacer. I came from Weisshaupt. Direct orders.”

“Oh?” Zevran intervenes. “Here to pry into our business, or merely to offer aid?”

“I think you’ll find it’s a little of both.” She hops down from the chair and takes her seat again, gesturing to the rest of the table for Loghain’s benefit. “Have you met everyone else?”

“Certainly. I was traveling with the Warden when they were recruited.” The dwarf is a bit commandeering for Loghain’s tastes, but the woman does know how to take charge. He can’t quite imagine that she and Alma had an easy first meeting. His gaze sweeps over the small group; a tall female Qunari Vashoth mage of few words, an easygoing dwarven craftsman, and an escaped Circle mage and templar pair with a dramatic backstory suited to a bard’s legend.  Everyone looks somewhat more well-adjusted now, thankfully. “Life at the Peak has suited you all well, I see. But I’m afraid I’d best be going.”

“Leaving us so soon, are you, Loghain? You’ve only just returned.” He feels a presence at his side and a firm grip on his arm, a raspy voice hissing in his ear as he’s dragged away from the table in the corner and back towards the card-playing fray before Zev has the presence of mind to intervene. His assailant, a small, handsome dark-skinned elf with a shock of short white hair and lyrium-blue eyes, gestures grandly to the chaos happening at the long table. A bulky broad-horned Qunari is arm-wrestling with a tiny but viciously enthusiastic elf youth, an ex-Orlesian rogue with a permanent scowl is performing sleight-of-hand card tricks for the benefit of a scruffy long-faced archer, and a sturdy warrior with sensible armor and a dashing ponytail is trying desperately to restore order among the other squabbling participants while a mabari pup leaps and barks at his feet. Elsewhere, a one-eyed pirate, Rivainian in origin, is imbibing freely and enthusiastically from the liquor cabinet. “Look what you’ve missed! Why, there’s enough hostility here to fuel an inter-Warden war. Won’t you sit and watch?”

“Thank you for the update, Thazulok, but _no._ ” Loghain firmly extricates himself from the elf’s prying grasp, prompting a frown and a sneer. A strange recruit, that one -- an ex-Tevinter mage, saved from Templar punishment by the Warden on one of her prior adventures and an endless source of trouble and intrigue ever since. The warrior with the mabari pup was another acquisition from that trip, but far more well-adjusted, unlike the fiery little elf mage with nothing but harsh words to offer. He struggles to find a diplomatic exit, backing towards the door with Zev at his side. “If you need my help, I’ll be back later, when things have settled down. For now, there’s work to be done.”

“I plan to hold you to that.” Thaz lets him go with a smirk, and practically shoves him and Zevran out the door, pushing it shut behind him. Hardly his ideal situation, but he, like all elves from his particular origin, is an opportunist. There’ll be time to question Loghain later about the ways of Fereldans, and unearth more Warden secrets. For now, he has a card game to exploit.

And for their part, Loghain and Zevran have business to attend to.


End file.
